The Art of Presence

One of my favorite memories was when I stumbled upon a lava rock crop that stretched itself out past the break. It created sheltered tide pools that ebbed up to the shore. I laid down in one, face up, floating, my hair swirling and brushing my bare shoulders. I felt nothing but the gentle coolness of salt water holding my body unless I chose to reach out and lay fingertips on the roughness of the lava wall next to me or the softness of the sand bed beneath me. The silence of the ocean blanked my ears.

I floated until it left. The tides pulled it out of my body and took it out to sea. I sat up, staring out at the horizon, hair plastered down my back, arms wrapped around my knees, feeling as if I had just woken from the womb. I smiled secretly to myself and got up. I gathered my things and told no one about me and the pools. I let the memory linger until it burned turquoise, cobalt, and raven nostalgia in my mind.

Hawaii taught me many things, but the art of presence ruled a prerequisite to understanding.